The peasant now in waiting at the hall-door was decidedly the handsomest woman in the parish. For time immemorial her fathers had been servants in Knockloftie, and she an occasional inmate of the house. Her brother, educated by my grandfather, had discharged the double duty of schoolmaster and driver--the latter, in plain English, meaning the factotum of an Irish gentleman of small estate. In this department, Halligan had been found dishonest, was disgracefully turned off, joined lawless men, obtained among them a bad pre-eminence, and now, under the double ban of murder and sedition, was skulking in the hills with a reward of fifty pounds offered for his apprehension. After her brother’s disgrace, Mary had seldom visited the mansion of her former master--and, as report said, she was affianced to one of the most troublesome and disaffected scoundrels in the barony. Mary Halligan, and much against her own inclination, was inducted by the churchman into my father’s presence. “It was too much trouble to his honour,” she muttered; “Mr. Hackett the butler would do all she wanted, and give the lines to Father Dominic.” “Mary,” said my father, as he handed her a glass of wine, “you tremble. Has anything alarmed you?” “It is very, very cold, your honour, out of doors.” “Cold it is, certainly, and Father Dominic will have a dreary ride. ‘Where is the letter for him?” Mary Halligan’s colour went and came, for my father’s searching eye was turned upon her, and that added to her confusion. She-fumbled in her bosom--pulled out one paper,--a second fell upon the carpet--one she caught up--the other she hastily delivered--and the latter, was the wrong one. My father carelessly looked over it, while Mary Halligan scrutinized his face with deep attention. As he read it--she became pale as death, and seemed hanging in fearful expectation upon the first words that Colonel O’llalloran would litter. “Ha!” said my father carelessly, “so the old woman’s bad it seems. She wants, I suppose, to make her will--leave you an heiress, Mary,--and Father Dominic will assist her. Well, the priest will be here directly. Come, Mary, ‘for auld lang syne’ we’ll have a glass. What has become of your brother, the schoolmaster?” “May God forgive the liars! They slandered him, and turned your honour again him. He would die for a dog belonging to Knockloftie,--and if he didn’t, the bigger villain he!” “And the young miller, Mary? people say you are about to marry him. Is he slandered, too?” “God sees he is,” was the response. “Any nightly meetings at the chapel, Mary?” said the Colonel. The girl changed colour again: “None, your honour--not one. Thanks be to God! the bad people have left the parish.” “When did you see your brother? To-night?” said the Colonel sharply. “To-night!” returned the girl, in tones which indicated deep confusion. “I am jesting, Mary. Where is he now?” “In Connaught, your honour, with a cousin of my mother’s.”